


What's mine is yours

by LostinFic



Series: Hardy x Hannah ficlets [4]
Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, The Sum of its Parts verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Is that my shirt?"</p>
<p>A clothing mix-up leads to an unexpected emotional reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's mine is yours

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same verse as The Sum of its Parts, right after chapter 2, but it can be read on its own.

**::London, January 2011::**

“Is that my shirt? “ Hannah asks as Hardy takes off his coat, looking very unhappy.

Yesterday, for the first time since they’d started seeing each other, she’d let him spend the night at her place. Thanks to his internal clock, he’d woken up almost on time, but actually getting out of bed when Hannah was sleeping peacefully in his arms hadn’t been easy. In the end, he had to get dressed in a hurry and had somehow put on a flowy, white button down shirt of hers rather than his own. Both pieces of clothing are quite similar actually except for the cut and the floral fabric inside the cuffs. In fact, he’d only noticed his mistake when he’d tried to put on his tie during the first coffee break, he’d realized then that it didn’t have buttons all the way up to the neck.

 

“Did you wear it all day?” Hannah asks, holding back a laugh.

“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?”

“Don’t you have a spare one?”

Hardy scrunches up his face and hits his forehead with his palm. Of course he has a spare one, in his suitcase, in the trunk of his car.

He usually goes to Hannah’s place on Thursday night, right after his last class. Then, around midnight, he goes back to his usual hotel, which is when he takes his suitcase out. He has classes on Friday as well, and he leaves for Sandbrook right after. But he hadn’t gone to the hotel yesterday and the change in his usual routine had thrown him off.

In fact, he’d been off all day. His thoughts kept wandering to what it could possibly mean that she’d asked him to stay. This new development in their relationship seemed to have opened a world of possibilities. When had he started to think of it as a relationship? Why did that make him so happy?

Oh, how foolish he’d been to think that their liaison wasn’t anything serious, that he would be able to put a stop to it whenever he would need to. He wanted to believe that he had this all under control. But the truth is that, with her smell so close to his nose all day, he’d hardly been able to focus on anything else.

It wouldn’t have been so bad really, but his colleagues noticed— both that he was wearing a woman’s shirt and that he had a dreamy, goofy smile on— and they had teased him for the better part of the afternoon. Alec doesn’t like being teased. Unless it’s by Hannah.

 

“Look on the bright side,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck, “it gave you an excuse to come see me.”

He smiles and kisses her, and like so many things when it comes to her, it deepens before he’s even realized what’s happening. His tongue caresses hers, and she curves into him, and when has he stopped breathing?

They break the kiss for air, but he doesn’t let that stop him, his fingers slip under the hem of her t-shirt, stroking the arc of her hip bones with his thumbs. He’ll never get enough of her, he thinks as he nuzzles her temple.

They talk briefly of their day, bodies still locked, and eventually they start looking for his shirt.

 

“Found it!” Hannah declares.

She retrieves it from under the bed and holds it up triumphantly.

“Erm, I found one too.”

He holds up a similar shirt he found on the back of the bathroom door but realizes it’s not his own when he takes a closer look at the label. His button-up is a much cheaper brand. The fact that she has another man’s clothing in her bathroom is an unpleasant reminder of their peculiar situation.

“Oh. I think it’s George’s… he likes to dress up at James Bond.”

She bites her bottom lip, averting his eyes. He drops the garment on the floor and takes back his own. He fiddles with the label, clenching his jaw. He’s always known about her job but today it upsets him more than it ever has. He thinks it’s like finding out your parachute won’t open after the first seconds of free fall euphoria.

“Would you mind if I took a shower here? I can’t go back to my wife smelling like you, we’re going out for dinner.”

It’s a cheap shot, bringing up his wife unnecessarily.

“Of course, don’t want her finding out, it might actually change something,” she replies in a clipped tone, crossing her arms.

Suddenly feeling out of his depth, Hardy rocks back on his heels.

 “So I can…”

“Yeah, go ahead, but make it quick, I have to get ready for my next client.”

He hesitates, tries to think of something to say to make everything right again.

“Busy night?”

“No more than usual.”

 “Right.”

 

Once the bathroom door is closed behind him, he sighs heavily.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The back of his head hits the door.

He undresses, placing her shirt in the laundry basket, and steps under the warm water. He wonders if another man has been in this shower today.

He hates the metal taste of jealousy rising in his mouth. He bites his tongue and ducks is head under the water, trying to drown out the noise of his thoughts.

 

Cold air drifts in when the glass door opens. He looks up and sees Hannah through the steam. As she walks into the shower, he straightens up, turning towards her.

He’s about to say something sarcastic when she presses her fingers to his lips, silently asking for a reprieve. He’s stunned but glad she stopped him. As warmth spreads in his chest, it washes the anger out of his blood. Hannah’s still on edge, though, but her features soften when he kisses her digits. He rests his forehead on hers, water dripping from his hair, drops catching in her eyelashes.

“It’s never gonna be easy, is it?”

It’s more a statement than a question. She replaces her fingers with her lips

“Do you want to stop?” she asks after.

“Do you?”

She shakes her head, barely so. He tries to kiss her but she backs off. Holding his gaze, she awaits his answer with her hands splayed on his sides, ready to push or pull him. His heart is racing: it’s a point of no return.

“No, I don’t want to stop.”

The last word is pronounced against her lips as she pulls him in, molding her body to his own wet one.

 


End file.
